


Spooky

by FinAmour



Series: 221(B)oyfriends [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Apologies to the organic chemists in the room, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Sex, Even on Halloween, Everyone Is Gay, Frottage, Ghosts, Halloween, He can’t not be Sherlock, Holy fuck they're so in love aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jealous John, M/M, Nerdy bois in love, Never Have I Ever, Oral Sex, Ouija Board, Possessive John, Praise Kink, Recreational marijuana use - Freeform, References to organic chemistry, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Supernatural Elements, The author knows nothing about science, The ghosts are gay too, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vulnerable John Watson, Vulnerable Sherlock, science jokes, seance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: John hums happily, returning to his canvas. He spreads Sherlock’s knees further apart, pressing them down into the bed as if pressing Sherlock back to earth.NOW COMPLETE***(Hi! Fin here! It's no longer Halloween, whoops! Thankfully, John and Sherlock's love can be enjoyed every single day of the year. Also, porn.Enjoy!)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: 221(B)oyfriends [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896241
Comments: 83
Kudos: 187





	1. Oral Sex and Candy

‘Tis All Hallows’ Eve—fete of fabrication and fright. A peculiar holiday fueled by stories of ghosts, barrages of candy, and labyrinths of corn. When children and adults (and the occasional domesticated animal) roam the boulevards, assuming false identities and partaking in Satanic rituals. But tonight, things at 221 Baker Street are even more spine-chilling than a rotting gourd with carved-out human features.

Mrs. Hudson is having a Halloween party. And to make matters even more gruesome, Sherlock has unwittingly accepted her invitation.

It all played out during a moment of weakness. Mrs. Hudson is shrewd, persuasive, and bakes the world’s best brownies. One to be reckoned with, that woman.

“It’s so lovely!” she exclaimed a few days prior, ambushing him in the corridor as he was returning from a walk. “Your first Halloween together as a couple! Oh!” She clasped her hands together at her cheek, a distant gaze forming in her eyes. “Your couple’s costume will blow everyone away, I’ll bet! I just can’t wait to see it!”

Indeed, she knows how to use Sherlock’s weaknesses to her advantage. Each mention of his and John’s status as a new couple sends a wave of giddy hysteria over him, inducing uncharacteristically compliant behaviour.

“Of course! Our couple’s costume is absolutely spectacular,” he declared, of a costume that did not actually exist.

She sighed happily. “Well, I’ll see you there, dear!” and she turned to go.

“Yes! See you there, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock beamed from ear to ear, heading off to devise a couple’s costume that would be no less than spectacular.

***

“Is our couple’s costume less than spectacular, John?”  


It’s ten minutes before Mrs. Hudson’s party begins, and Sherlock is sprawled luxuriously across his and John’s bed. He wears only his bathrobe, skin dewy and hair damp from showering.

John—wearing only a towel—is at the foot of the bed, his face buried between Sherlock’s open legs. He was on his way to shower as well, but his state of undress caused a very noticeable chemical reaction underneath Sherlock’s robe—one that John couldn’t possibly leave unresolved.

John brushes a tender kiss onto Sherlock’s inner thigh before looking over at him. “Sorry?”

“Our costume!” Sherlock persists. “Do you think people will actually understand the concept we’re aiming for?”

The corners of John’s mouth turn up slightly. He does the absurdly seductive thing where he drags his tongue over his bottom lip. “Sherlock. My love. Bit busy at the moment.” His gaze flits downwards in demonstration, and then back to him. “Would you like me to take a break from pleasuring you so we can have a chat about it?”

 _My love._ Oh! Another noticeable chemical reaction.

"No! God, no. Please, continue honing your craft,” Sherlock says, relaxing his head onto the pillow.

Sherlock loves John’s craft. He’s probably the number one fan of John’s craft. And he also loves that John isn’t put off by his interrupting. John knows that Sherlock’s brain sometimes spins, but that doesn’t make his artisanship any less admired.

John hums happily, returning to his canvas. He spreads Sherlock’s knees further apart, pressing them down into the bed as if pressing Sherlock back to earth. He glides his tongue over Sherlock’s soft skin, caressing him with his lips, his tongue, his lips. Flattens his tongue, drags it up the shaft and over the head. Flicks it gently over the opening, teasing Sherlock’s senses.

Sherlock inhales sharply and squeezes his eyes together. The ecstasy—paired with the acute anticipation of indescribable pleasure—drives him mad. He holds his breath as jolts of electricity seem to shoot through his pelvic region.

“Oh, John.” His eyes fly open, and he raises his head off the pillow. “John. Perhaps we ought to have gone with the vampire and werewolf costumes.”

In one swift, slick motion, John wraps his lips around him, squeezing the base of his length—hard, but just hard enough—and takes him deep into his wet, warm mouth. 

It shuts Sherlock up completely (after he makes an embarrassing noise that he will never admit to making). He lies back and shuts his eyes, focusing on John, and only John, breathing and sighing and trying not to buck wildly; murmuring John’s name as he rakes his fingertips through his own hair.

John works his toe-curling magic, skillfully bringing Sherlock to orgasm before one can say “Hocus Pocus.” And for a brief moment at the peak of climax, Sherlock wonders if he may actually be a wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the boys head to the party. Mrs. Hudson bakes brownies.


	2. Covalent Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would kiss you,” John says, “...but I think it might cause fission."
> 
> "Completely worth it.” Sherlock bends down and presses their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: Uhhh I forgot to tag this in the first chapter, but Mrs. Hudson’s brownies are like...the special kind of brownies 😅😅😅. So I’m letting you know now in case that’s not your thing.
> 
> That said, there’s no drama herein. This is all fun, completely silly and ridiculously fluffy. So I hope you enjoy!

Following their unscheduled—though enjoyable—rendezvous, John and Sherlock don their spectacular couple’s costume. Each of them wears a chest piece, created by Sherlock—with twelve small foam balls masterfully glued together at the front. Thin wires are wrapped around their shoulders and waists, forming large circles; three additional foam balls are attached to each wire. And of course, to ensure the highest accuracy possible, there are exactly six balls of each colour. 

"We _must_ be holding hands before we go inside," Sherlock advises. “And we cannot let go of one another thereafter; it will ruin the costume. Understood?”

As they approach Mrs. Hudson’s flat, John appears to consider the size of his balls and wires. "Not sure if we'll both fit through the door at the same time, Sherlock. Or, you know...fit anywhere at the same time.”

"John!" Sherlock protests. "We're carbon _dating._ If we aren’t convincing as an atomic couple, we may as well just be singular atoms running off to form bonds with hydrogen...or oxygen!" 

"Of course." John gives Sherlock a reassuring smile, taking his hand hand into his. "Would not want that." 

”Not at all,” Sherlock agrees, using his other hand to knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door. It’s okay if John lacks common sense. He’s still really handsome.

"Oh, hello, boys!" Mrs. Hudson swings the door open. She wears a short black wig and a 1920's speakeasy getup. "Come in! Everyone will be thrilled to see your…erm...costume." Her face noticeably drops. "What are you two supposed to be, then?"

Sherlock glares at her. He and John shimmy through the entryway, Sherlock's hand stubbornly latched onto his. Before he can answer, however, Molly—wearing a superhero costume—leaps from the sofa to greet them.

Oh, thank goodness. _Molly_ will understand.

"They're molecules!" She dashes over with excitement, tripping on her cape while doing so. "...I think." 

Sherlock groans with frustration. Mrs. Hudson gets bored and heads off to the kitchen. 

"We’re atoms, actually." John gives Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "Well, not just any atom. A certain type of atom. Six protons, six neutrons, six electrons…" 

Molly stares blankly at him for several seconds. Then, she breaks into a fit of giggles. "Oh, boy. I should have paid more attention during organic chemistry! I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, even though he and Molly can no longer be friends. "Apparently only a genius can understand the—“

"Carbon dating! A-ha!" calls out a familiar voice from across the room.

Sherlock crinkles his forehead indignantly when he discovers who it is: the person with the least amount of genius in the universe. 

"Good one," Anderson continues. He turns his head to Donovan, who sits besides him on the sofa; both of them are dressed in a steampunk getup. "I wish we'd thought of that one!" 

"Right?!" Donovan says enthusiastically. “Fantastic idea, actually.” She then turns to stare at John, admiring his wires and foam balls for a tad bit too long. 

"It was _my_ idea," Sherlock interjects, taking a step in front of his boyfriend, because _he_ is the _only one_ allowed to admire John’s balls. 

"You did a great job!” Molly says, and abracadabra, they are friends again. “The costume is _so_ you.” 

"It's perfect," Donovan agrees. "Seriously. You two are ridiculously cute together." 

"What is that supposed to mean?!" Sherlock leans towards her with a look of intimidation, arms crossed over his nucleus. 

"Sherlock," John says mildly. "It was a compliment." 

"So...?" Sherlock whispers back. "Am I to presume that Donovan and Anderson decided to dress up as people with actual personalities for Halloween?" 

John nudges him in the ribcage. Molly giggles. 

"I mean—thank you,” Sherlock utters.

"Brownies?"

Mrs. Hudson pops up out of nowhere, returning with a tray of delicious treats. 

"Oh, yes please!" Sherlock’s stomach rumbles as he reaches for the tray.

 _"Wait!"_ John's voice is firm; it’s quite sexy, and the only thing distracting Sherlock from the fact that he does not currently have a brownie in his mouth.

“Mrs. Hudson." John bends forwards and peers into her eyes. Then, he turns to Molly and does the same. "...do these brownies have cannabis in them?"

"Of course they do!" Sherlock says as he finally takes one. "Mrs. Hudson's Famous Fun Brownies. I've told you about them." 

"No, you haven't." 

Sherlock shrugs. “I have. It's not my fault that you don't listen half the time I'm speaking to you." 

"Half the time you're speaking to me, I'm not even there!" John argues. 

"And whose fault is that?" Sherlock takes a bite. Mmm, delicious.

John sighs with defeat, turning to observe the others. "So you all knew about this?" 

Everyone nods, a wave of confirmation running through the room. 

"Are you _all_ under the influence of Mrs. Hudson’s brownies?" he asks. 

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Anderson says. 

"I’m high as a kite," Mrs. Hudson states. 

"Profoundly high," Donovan iterates. 

Molly giggles.

"Endeavouring to be." Sherlock takes another brownie and offers it to John. “Join me?”

***

An hour later, John lies sprawled out upon the floor, head in Sherlock’s lap, their wires astonishingly intertwined.

Molly is on the floor, too; as is everyone else, although they're engaged in conversations of their own. 

"When a person washes with soap," John muses, staring intently at the ceiling. “...they get clean. But does the soap also get dirty?" 

Sherlock chuckles as he combs his fingers contentedly through John's hair. "Are you currently under the influence of marijuana, John?" 

"Mmmm...maybe." 

Sherlock continues to stroke his hair. Per usual, John is very pretty, and he smells very nice. Sherlock thinks he could do this for hours. Has he been doing this for hours? Maybe. It feels like it. Time is odd. 

"Our wires are all wrapped together now, Sherlock," John says. 

"Yes. I suppose they are."

"Does this mean we've gone from carbon dating to carbon bonding?" 

"Covalent bonding," Sherlock corrects him. "But yes, I believe so." 

"Good." John's eyes fall shut and he smiles. "Love you." 

Sherlock's heart warms for the captivating, endearing man in his lap. "Love you, too." 

John's eyes open again. "Do you think the word _synonym_ has a synonym?" he asks, apropos of nothing. 

"Sort of. Metonym: a word, name, or expression used as a substitute for something else with which it is closely associated." 

John tilts his head back to gaze up at him again. "Fuck, you're sexy." 

Sherlock lifts a coy eyebrow. "Am I?" 

"Yes. Incredibly sexy. You should be my boyfriend." 

"You're being ironic," Sherlock observes. "Because we are already boyfriends. But I'll take bait. Yes, I will be your boyfriend." 

"I would kiss you,” John says, “...but I think it might cause fission."

"Completely worth it.” Sherlock bends down and presses their lips together. And so they remain for an indeterminable amount of time.

Sadly, it comes to an end when there's a knock at Mrs. Hudson's door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: A mysterious person by the name of “Greg” appears at the door. A surreptitious hooded figure sips Pilsner in the corner.


	3. Death Has Arrived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Legend has it,” Sherlock says valiantly, “...that kissing tall, handsome geniuses on All Hallows’ Eve will protect one from the cold, bony grasp of death.”
> 
> “Hmm.” John grins at him. “That’s more than a legend, I’d say.”

“That must be Greg at the door!” Mrs. Hudson hoists herself off the floor, giving Sherlock and John a covert nod. “He mentioned bringing a friend along. Perhaps someone you know?”

“I don’t even know who Greg is,” Sherlock acknowledges, but she’s already flitted past them on her way to the door. His gaze shifts back to his boyfriend, whose head is in his lap. “John, who’s Greg?”

“Greg Lestrade, darling.”

“Oh!” Sherlock makes a hacking noise of disapproval. "Dull." 

“That’s what _I’ve_ always said!” Anderson—who has been silently lounging against the coffee table for quite some time—suddenly sits upright. "There isn’t a more boring, forgettable name than _Greg_. Isn’t everyone’s granddad a _Greg_? You can only meet so many before the name simply goes in one ear and out the other.”

“Precisely!” Sherlock—abruptly impassioned—throws his arms into the air, unintentionally smashing a carbon proton into John’s face.

“Oi.” John punches the proton back. ”Sherlock, perhaps we ought to put away the costumes for a bit?”

Sherlock clears his throat. "Pardon?” He definitely heard him. But for John’s sake, he will pretend he didn’t.

It all becomes a moot point, however; Lestrade approaches them before John can respond. 

“Hey, all!” Lestrade nods a greeting. “Sorry I’m late. Just left work.” He is predictably not wearing a costume, because he’s predictably boring. 

"Hello, boss." Donovan waves at him. "You decided not to dress up?”

Lestrade gives her a half-shrug.

“Of course he dressed up!” Anderson asserts. “His costume is…wait…” he peers at the detective inspector. “...A man with a boring name!”

Sherlock snorts a laugh. "Uncanny!" 

“Funny.” Lestrade’s voice is flat. He awkwardly rubs his hands together until Donovan offers him a seat next to herself and Anderson; and he settles in, chatting pleasantly with the two of them.

Sherlock watches on in a drug-induced stupor. It occurs to him how _not_ unbearable—dare he say approaching normal—Anderson and Donovan have been this evening. It’s a realisation he finds deeply unsettling.

“It makes no sense. No sense at all,” Sherlock laments. “Anderson is a moron; Donovan is insufferable. And yet I’ve had only semi-pleasant exchanges with them since arriving at the party.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Could it be a Halloween miracle? Are they performing a prank on everyone? Might they have endured simultaneous concussions? Surely, this is a mystery that will require a bit more research.”

Molly, who is lying down a few inches away, turns over on her side to face him. “Do you know you’re saying these things out loud, Sherlock?” she asks sweetly.

 _Was he?_ No matter. Sherlock huffs. “I was talking to John. Obviously. Right, John?” He looks back down at John for confirmation. He’s peacefully dozing. Sherlock pokes at his sternum.

Ignoring Sherlock’s ill-fated attempt, Molly tilts her head in Donovan’s direction. “It’s the cannabis that does it,” she explains. “Those two—they’re absolutely mental most of the time, but they’re fairly decent under the influence.”

Sherlock regards her for a moment. “It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, however, that they’re jointly concussed.”

“CBD regulates imbalances in the endocannabinoid system,” Molly continues. “Helps the neurotransmitters do their job. Takes the edge off for people with anger issues. Oh, I’m very tired.” She yawns. “Must be the marijuana, too. Goodnight!” She turns back away from him and lays her head on her hands.

Sherlock gawks at her, amazed at how she can go from rattling off scientific information to asleep in less than five seconds.

John stirs in his lap. He yawns, rubs his face for a few seconds, and opens his eyes, allowing them to adjust. As things seem to come into focus, however, they immediately widen with alarm.

“Sherlock!” He hisses, his voice low. “When did Death arrive?” He points his finger to a dark corner on the other side of the room. 

At first, Sherlock assumes this must simply be another one of John’s darling marijuana-induced rhetorical questions—but once he follows where John is pointing, he sees otherwise.

A mysterious hooded person dressed as the Grim Reaper stands alone, shrouded by shadows—scythe in one hand, bottle of Pilsner in the other. They speak to nobody; simply standing there, observing the room in silence. Sherlock can’t make out any features, but feels an evil, albeit familiar, energy radiating from them.

”You see it too, right?” John laughs nervously. “It isn’t just me?”

“It isn’t just you,” Sherlock reassures him. “Must be that friend of Lestrade’s Mrs. Hudson mentioned earlier.” 

John shivers a bit, nestling further into Sherlock. “Well. Whoever they are, they’re creepy.”

“Agreed.”

Sherlock thinks it’s best they change the subject.

“Legend has it,” he says valiantly, “...that kissing tall, handsome geniuses on All Hallows’ Eve will protect one from the cold, bony grasp of death.”

“Hmm.” John grins at him. “That’s more than a legend, I’d say. After all, _my_ tall, handsome genius has saved my life more times than I can count.”

Sherlock’s heart swells until it’s ten sizes larger than his chest. ”Good. _My_ short, pretty doctor soldier has done the same.”

And then, they’re kissing again. They’re kissing, wrapped up in each other on the floor of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. And with a dark silhouette from the corner looking on, it almost feels like they’re defying Death—which is something the two of them are both very good at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Molly attempts to hold a seance. John attempts to save Lestrade’s life. Neither attempt goes as planned.


	4. Love and Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leans away to meet his eyes. “Very smooth, Holmes. You’ve gotten quite good at this, haven’t you?”
> 
> Sherlock shrugs. “Out of all the things you could possibly be, I like you the most. I hope that’s alright.”
> 
> John circles his arms around Sherlock and rests his chin on top of his head. “I like you the most, too.”

It’s whatever-o’clock, and everyone (except for Death, probably) feels fantastic—due to good company and Mrs. Hudson’s Famous Fun Brownies. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Donovan are chatting at the dining room table with a bottle of wine; Anderson and Lestrade are in the kitchen debating the existence of the Illuminati. John and Sherlock are still on the floor, but at some point, they seem to have traded places; it’s now Sherlock who lies in John’s lap as John strokes his curly locks of hair.

“So,” John says. “Our first big holiday together is practically in the books. How are you feeling about that?”

Sherlock considers his question for a moment. “I feel...like I want more.”

John beams; Sherlock knows it means he feels the same.

“Quick question, Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

John dips his face down until his mouth is just above Sherlock’s ear, his hot breath on his skin. 

The unanticipated move causes an immediate wave of excitement to wash over Sherlock’s body. He squirms beneath John as the tips of John’s lips brush against his jaw. “Yes, John?”

“I was wondering how you might feel about us acquiring more costumes,” he asks suggestively. “You know. For purposes...not related to Halloween.”

“Yes. I like that idea.” Sherlock‘s voice and breath become rough as John presses soft kisses to his neck. “You mean like Christmas and Easter, right?”

Sherlock feels John biting off a laugh; he slides his tongue over his bottom lip before steadily explaining himself. “We can do that as well, if you’d like...but I was referring to sexy costumes. Fantasy type things, roleplay, you know...just something to add even more fun.”

“Mmm, that does sound fun,” Sherlock agrees. “And it’s something I’d consider. But for the time being, I think I simply want you to be John.”

John leans away to meet his eyes. “Very smooth, Holmes. You’ve gotten quite good at this, haven’t you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Out of all the things you could possibly be, I like _you_ the most. I hope that’s alright.”

John circles his arms around Sherlock and rests his chin on top of his head. “I like you the most, too.”

Sherlock smiles. He holds John closer, basking in his warmth. He was not at all expecting have an enjoyable time tonight. Thanks to John (and a little bit of pot) (but mostly John), it’s been lovely. And if this is what every Halloween, every occasion, every day with John will be like, he will gladly keep him around for all of them.

John gasps, and Sherlock shifts his gaze upwards to see what’s the matter. John’s blue eyes have grown endearingly wide again. “Look!” He points to the corner, where the hooded figure still carries out their ominous surveillance. “The Reaper’s got Lestrade!”

Sherlock glances over. Lestrade is standing before the hooded figure, engaged in a deep conversation.

“Yes, it looks like it,” Sherlock acknowledges. However, he finds it much more delightful to watch John fixating on the developing scene before them, narrating every movement as his concern gradually approaches panic.

“Lestrade’s expression looks very serious…” John whispers. “Quite grave, actually. As if he’s just heard a bit of sobering news…” He leans in for a clearer view. “I can’t see what his face is doing… Oh!” he gasps again and places his hand on Sherlock’s. “Oh no. Death has taken Lestrade by the arm! They’re walking off... he’s pulling him away… they’re headed towards the dark corridor...Greg! Where are you going?”

John sort of yells the last part.

Sherlock’s attention returns to Lestrade.

Lestrade turns back, puzzled. “I’m just going out for a cigarette,” he explains. “Be right back.”

“No! Don’t go!” John pleads. He then peers at the tall, silent shadow figure looming in the doorway. He stops using his voice, dramatically mouthing one word: _Death!_

“Yeah. Thanks, doc.” Lestrade takes a carton of cigarettes from his pocket. “I’m aware of the risks of smoking, but I appreciate the concern. Be back in a few.” With that, he exits—and the hooded figure follows right at his heels.

John slumps over. “Will you be, though?” 

Sherlock wants to offer comfort, but by now, he’s giggling so uncontrollably that he can barely catch his breath. So he sits upright, scoots in besides John, and pulls him in for a hug. “Even though you’re clearly experiencing an episode of drug-induced paranoia,” he says once he can breathe again, “...you’re looking out for your friends.”

Sherlock’s not surprised. It’s one of the most John things in the world, really.

“Sherlock?” John asks quietly.

“Yes?”

“Am I actually freaking out about a person in a costume?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god. I’ve gone mad.” 

”You’ll be fine,” Sherlock says. “What’s-his-name will be fine as well.”

“...Greg.”

“Yes, that one.”

Just as Sherlock predicted, Lestrade returns a few minutes later. He’s sans Death, but clearly alive. And so the party goes on.

***

It’s well past midnight—the witching hour. Molly has just placed two dozen unlit candles on the floor with no explanation. She begins to sprinkle generous portions of an especially pungent liquid over them.

“Molly,” Sherlock notes. “If you’re attempting to put out the candles, perhaps you ought to light them first.”

“Unless your plan is to set the place on fire,” Anderson adds. He’s more than half-joking.

Molly rolls her eyes. “Of course not! It’s time for us to do the seance!” she explains, as if it’s obvious knowledge—though it was more likely plotted sometime in the past few minutes over a bottle of wine.

She makes a tiny gasping noise and begins patting down her pockets. “Oh, no! I don’t have any matches!” She turns to Lestrade. “Have you got any I could borrow?”

“Used my last one.” (He’s got two left.)

“Mrs. Hudson?” Molly asks.

“Sorry, dear, no.” (There’s a book of them in the kitchen cupboard.) “....But I do have one of those old-fashioned Ouija Boards. We could pull that out!”

“Ooooh!” Molly claps her hands together enthusiastically. “That sounds like fun!”

It doesn’t sound fun.

And yet, two minutes later, they’re all gathered in a circle on the floor holding hands. Donovan says that she’s excited because this reminds her of Halloweens with her grandmother. Anderson says he’s excited because this reminds him of a pornographic film he once watched. Most of the others are fairly certain they’ve seen the same film.

Molly tells them to settle down as she places her hands atop the planchette—or the ghosts will get angry. But ghosts don’t get angry. Because ghosts don’t exist. And Molly seems to be the only one who’s angry.

But as soon as she begins the seance, her mood flips like a switch.

“Hello, ghosts!” She says cheerfully. “Happy Halloween!”

Sherlock and the others stare expectantly at the wooden piece, waiting for it to move. It doesn’t.

“I don’t know if you actually have Halloween wherever you are!” Molly continues awkwardly. “Although...perhaps every day is Halloween there, so there’s nothing special about tonight! Anyway. I’ll just get started with a few questions. First off...I work with dead people. Have we met?”

Sherlock knows nothing about this game, but he’s fairly certain Molly hasn’t read the directions carefully enough.

She wriggles where she sits. “Erm...Do you have a name, Mister Ghost? Or Mrs. Ghost. Or, you know, whatever your identity is. Didn’t mean to assume your gender. Where are you from? How did you die?”

Are they all aware of how utterly cringeworthy this is? Yes. But do they all keep staring at the board in hopes that something happens? Also yes.

Molly finally gives up, moving her hands to her lap. “Sorry, everyone. Seems as though the ghosts are all busy tonight.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Busy not existing.”

Molly glares at him.

“Look!” Mrs. Hudson shrieks, pointing to the planchette. “It’s moving!”

Mrs. Hudson is not wrong. Nobody is touching the wooden piece, but it’s drawing out long circular patterns on the board—as though controlled by an invisible force. Likely not by a ghost, however. Definitely not by a ghost. Ghosts aren’t real—and there are plenty of invisible forces that are real. Like static electricity and magnetism; like love and gravity.

Whichever force is at work, it soon grows tired of making pointless board loops. Veering downwards, it points to a single word on the board:

_HELLO_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: (probably not) Ghosts. A game of Never Have I Ever. John learns something about Sherlock’s past; boo! Surprise jealousy 👻


	5. Every Question in the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once Sherlock and John return to their flat, they remove their costumes and carry out their bedtime routine; it all happens much more silently than Sherlock would like.
> 
> “Night, Sherlock.” John heads off to their bedroom just as Sherlock finishes washing his face. 
> 
> Sherlock watches him go. He doesn’t like any of this, actually. 
> 
> “John, wait.”

“Did everyone else see what that little wooden thing just did?” Lestrade flails his arms towards Mrs. Hudson’s ouija board, his face paler than a corpse’s.

“Oh, shit!” Anderson yelps, somehow launching himself backwards two meters. “It moved on its own!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A simple parlour trick,” he says blandly. And it was. Of that, he’s certain. And he will figure out how certain it is. In a moment, once he’s calmed down. Calmed down, of course—not from the unexpected and seemingly autonomous movement of the planchette. Nope. He’s just hysterically thrilled to be here.

“John.” He squeezes John’s hand. “Why don’t you get a closer look at it, so you can explain how correct I am?”

“Sure.” John scoots forwards towards the Ouija board, fingers still laced between Sherlock’s. “There’s got to be something connected to it. Hidden wires, perhaps? A magnet? An optical illusion?”

“Heavens, no, dear.” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “You think I’ve got time to pull all that together?”

Molly glances over at Donovan. “Sally. You mentioned you’ve done something like this before with your grandmother. Is what just happened...normal?”

Donovan laughs nervously, her body tense. “I wouldn’t say normal, exactly. Something similar happened a couple of times with my grandmother. I was too young to know if it was real, or if she was just making it up for fun. But I do remember always thinking she had some type of gift.”

“Oh!” Molly interjects. “Perhaps she did have a gift, and she passed it to you.” She moves over, patting the spot in front of the ouija board. “You ought to try.”

Donovan regards her warily at first, but quickly gives in. “Alright.” She slowly approaches the board and sets her fingertips over the planchette.

“Hold on a moment,” John intervenes. “If you’re touching the wooden piece, how are we to know you’re not moving it?”

Donovan peers up at him, feigning a smile. “I guess you can’t know. However, if it moves on its own again, I’m concerned it may launch off the board and collide with your boyfriend’s pretty face.”

“God, no!” both men (and Anderson, for some reason) exclaim in unison.

Donovan takes a deep breath before returning her attention to the ouija board.

“Hello,” she says. “Are you still there?”

The wooden piece points to the word yes.

”Good.” Donovan nods. “What should we call you?”

“It’s spelling something!” Molly leans closer. _“S-Y-L-V-I-A._ Sylvia.”

“Lovely name,” Mrs. Hudson says nostalgically. “My dearest friend at university was named Sylvia.”

“Awwww!” Molly diverts her eyes from the board to Mrs. Hudson. “That’s so nice!”

“Is there anything you’d like to communicate, Sylvia?” Donovan presses on.

But this time, the planchette stays put.

“Sylvia?” Donovan repeats. “Are you still here?”

“Guess she got bored,” Anderson (who’s still two yards away from the circle) says.

“Wow! Same here.” Sherlock blows out a breath of air. “Anyway, I’m starving, and the bag of crisps in the kitchen is calling out to me.” He hops up from the floor. “Quite an impressive trick, though, I must admit.” He tilts his head to observe the area. “So how did you do it, Hudders?”

Before anyone answers, the planchette begins to move. Donovan has taken her hands away, however—and it seems to be moving, again, of its own accord.

“Oh, no! Protect your face, Sherlock!” Anderson calls out.

Sherlock, Lestrade, and John exchange awkward glances.

“Philip, hush,” Sally says sharply.

“It’s spelling something again!” Molly gasps, tenacious about reading the words aloud.

_TELL THE PRETENTIOUS WATER MOLECULE OVER THERE TO SETTLE DOWN_

_NOT EVERY QUESTION IN THE UNIVERSE MUST BE ANSWERED IMMEDIATELY_

“I think she’s talking about you, Sherlock,” Molly acknowledges.

Sherlock’s jaw drops as he huffs incredulously. “ _You_ settle down, Sylvia!” He sneers at the board. “And besides, I’m a CARBON MOLECULE!”

“Atom,” John reminds him.

“That’s what I meant to say! Donovan, please advise—how does one punch a ghost?”

The wooden piece moves quickly this time. Sherlock’s innate response is to duck down—and of course, to cover his pretty face.

“ _HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA,”_ Molly reads. “She’s laughing at you.”

Sherlock crosses his arms angrily. “Let her. I refuse to argue with a fake entity.” He waves a hand at Donovan. “Continue, if you must.”

“What else would you like to say?” Donovan inquires.

_ONE OR TWO THINGS_

_TO MARTHA HUDSON IF I MAY_

Everyone’s eyes move to a delighted Mrs. Hudson. Her expression wavers between disbelief and the suspension thereof. “Is that _my_ Sylvia?”

The planchette moves to: _YES_

Molly’s face twists with confusion as she reads.

_PLEASE LET HER KNOW THAT I’M SORRY I NEVER TOLD HER_

The planchette stops moving again.

“...Told her what?!” John asks. “It’s not fair to leave us hanging!”

“The suspense is killing us!” Lestrade joins in. “No offence, Sylvia. I’m sure being dead is nice.”

“I kinda wish I were dead right now,” Anderson states.

“Lord, same,” Sherlock adds.

John hushes him and takes his hand. “Not something to joke about, love.” He holds his hand to his mouth and kisses it softly. “I would be very lonely if that happened.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs. He’s still got to get used to someone wanting him around as much as John does.

“Mrs. Hudson. Have you got any idea what Sylvia is referring to?” Donovan asks.

“I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “Just...tell her I’m sorry, as well.” The sad look in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes tells that she knows exactly what she’s saying, however. And for a moment, Sherlock wonders if she’s feeling what John would feel if he lost him.

“Mrs. Hudson says she’s sorry as well.” Sally waits another moment. “Do you have more things you’d like to say?”

_HER COCKWOMBLE HUSBAND IS IN THE BAD PLACE WHERE HE BELONGS_

_ALSO HE LEFT A TRUNK FULL OF CASH BENEATH SOME FLOORBOARDS NEXT TO THE FIREPLACE_

_I’VE GOT TO GO NOW_

_WHEEL OF FORTUNE IS ON_

And with that, the planchette slides to its final word:

_GOODBYE_

Nobody says a single thing for several moments.

Eventually, Sally exhales a whoosh of air. “Wow.”

“Right? What is it with old people and Wheel of Fortune?” Anderson asks.

“Who cares about that?” Sherlock leaps up from the floor and makes his way to Mrs. Hudson’s fireplace. “Let’s see what’s beneath the floorboards!”

“Ooooh,” Donovan teases. “Look who’s suddenly a believer.”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock bends down to knock on pieces of floorboard, inch by inch. “However, Mrs. Hudson deserves every penny for putting up with that imbecile of a husband for so many years.” He pulls at a board, yanking it loose. It reveals an empty space beneath, and he looks up at Mrs. Hudson with a triumphant grin.

***

There is, indeed, a trunk full of bills hidden beneath the floor. However, it’s all Bolivian peso, a form of currency that’s been obsolete since 1986.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t seem too bothered.

“He never did anything useful in his life,” she says. “...so why would he do anything useful in his death?” She clasps her hands together. “Anyhow! The night’s still young. What do you all want to do next?”

The night might be young, but Lestrade is old. While most of them agree to one more activity before calling it in, Lestrade heads out because he’s got work in the morning.

After he bids everyone farewell, someone among them decides they’ve got to end the night by playing a game called Never Have I Ever. Sherlock is unfamiliar with the game, so he lets John explain the rules.

“It’s simple. Everyone holds up five fingers. We all take turns confessing something we’ve never done before. Any person in the room who has done that thing puts down one finger. Last person to remain with fingers up is the loser.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand the appeal, of course. But John seems into it, so whatever. Meanwhile, Sherlock creates his own little subgame: lie detection.

It goes exactly how he suspected. His friends are all liars. Except for John, who just keeps looking over at him and smiling. He knows Sherlock can read him like a book, so there’s no point. 

But the little subgame is only fun for a round or two. Sherlock instead begins storing all the “ _have_ ” answers in his Mind Palace; he assumes (correctly) that this knowledge will prove valuable in the future.

_Have Evers (Not Have Nevers):_

**Cheated on a test** : Everyone but Donovan (lie)  
 **Cheated on a partner** : Donovan, Anderson (with each other)  
 **Been arrested** : Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson  
 **Fallen in love** : Everyone  
 **Gone bungee jumping** : No one  
 **Touched a corpse** : Ridiculous question given the audience  
 **Been to Africa** : John  
 **Skipped class on purpose** : All but Molly (lie)  
 **Gone skydiving** : Donovan, Anderson (lie, he chickened out before jumping), Molly  
 **Punched someone** : John, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan  
 **Killed someone** (military service excluded): Nobody (lie)  
 **Had a sexual encounter with a man** : John, Hudson, Donovan, Sherlock, Molly  
 **Had a sexual encounter with a woman** : Everyone but Molly (bonus knowledge that hasn’t yet been revealed: Donovan would quite like to have sex with her)

It’s two in the morning, and thankfully, everyone decides that’s the final question: the game ends up a draw between Molly and Anderson.

Sherlock stands, holding his hand out to John. John takes it and pulls himself up—but the moment Sherlock touches him, he detects a sense of restless indignation.

“What’s the matter, John?” he asks immediately.

John sighs. “I will never be able to hide anything from you. Will I?”

“No. So it’s probably better if you just tell me.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing, love. It’s not about you, anyway. Just issues I’ve got to work out on my own. Alright?”

“Alright.” Sherlock thinks John shouldn’t need to do anything alone now that he’s got him—if that’s what he wants, however, that’s what he’ll do.

They go to leave, giving Mrs. Hudson a hug and thanking her for a genuinely fantastic evening. Sherlock nods in Anderson’s direction and reassures him that he still hates him.

In turn, Anderson sets a hand on his shoulder. “I hate you too, Sherlock,” he says. “I hate you a lot.” And in Sherlock’s heart, he knows he means it.

“Goodnight, love.” Molly wraps her arms around Sherlock for an enthusiastic embrace. She’s always been an excellent hugger. Before letting go, she stands on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. “Talk to John a bit more. I think perhaps he was surprised to learn about some of your past sexual experiences. And he’s quite the jealous type, as you know.”

Molly is absolutely right. Sherlock knows this about John, but it didn’t even occur to him. It’s not that he’s ashamed of his past, of course; yes, he’s slept with other people, but what has that got to do with John?

Besides—he wasn’t in love with them. Not even close.

“Bye, freak,” Donovan calls out to Sherlock. “Bye, freak’s boyfriend.”

And oh, it’s quite comforting to know that Donovan has returned to her baseline of insufferability as well.

***

Once Sherlock and John return to their flat, they remove their costumes and carry out their bedtime routine; it all happens much more silently than Sherlock would like.

“Night, Sherlock.” John heads off to their bedroom just as Sherlock finishes washing his face.

Sherlock watches him go. He doesn’t like any of this, actually.

“John, wait.”

John stops at their bedroom door. 

Before he’s had time to open it, Sherlock approaches him swiftly. He takes him by the shoulders and kisses him as firmly as he possibly can, their bodies colliding into the door. Sherlock presses himself lengthwise against him, and John wraps him up in his arms, pulling him close.

Sherlock can sense desperation in the way John moves his hips; in the way he slides his tongue over Sherlock’s lips until he allows them to part. And Sherlock tries to put every word into the kiss that he wants to say, but he can’t. As incredible as it feels to be kissing John, he’s got to say the words out loud.

So he sets a final chaste kiss to John’s lips, creating a trail of them across his jaw before resting his head in the crook of his neck.

“I know you don’t want to talk about how you’re feeling,” he says. “But there’s one thing I’ve got to say: it’s you, John, and it’s always been you. And I think perhaps I was searching for you my entire life; but I must have felt I needed to temporarily fill the space I was keeping for John Watson.”

“I know,” John says. “I love you so much, Sherlock. And I do want to talk to you about this, but I’m absolutely exhausted. Could you come lie next to me so I can fall asleep with you in my arms?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock thinks of how his prior self might not have so easily let a problem like this go—allowing it to simply be solved in due time. But it’s just as Sylvia (who doesn’t exist) said: Settle down. Not every question in the universe must be answered immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The final chapter! A little fluffy fluff. A little smutty smut. And all is right with the world. :)))))


	6. Until Your Eyes Become Dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's fine, Sherlock. " John smiles tightly. "I'm fine. I don't need to know. You aren't entitled to share your past with me."
> 
> "But I've got nothing to hide," Sherlock says--mildly alarmed by the candidness that spills out from his words. "Have you?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's no longer Halloween, whoops! Thankfully, John and Sherlock's love can be enjoyed every single day of the year. Also, porn. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Any tension formed between John and Sherlock that night evaporates the moment they fall asleep. And although they've removed their costumes, they remain fused together--when they wake up, neither has let the other go.

Before he's even opened his eyes, Sherlock feels John brush his lips against his crown of curls. But the moment his eyelids flutter open, he's reminded of the previous night's misgivings. 

"Morning,” John says, his voice raspy from sleep. 

“John,” Sherlock responds, not entirely certain which words are about to follow. His intentions continue to oscillate between wanting to resolve their problem and avoiding the anxiety over what such a conversation might entail.

When in doubt, however, he’s learned that kissing is the obvious solution—so he seals their mouths together.

John makes a low, surprised moan deep in his throat, but inhales into the kiss, wrapping both arms around Sherlock's waist in a manner that's deliciously possessive. 

Molly has always told Sherlock that possessiveness is a toxic trait. Hmph. She doesn't exactly have the best sense when it comes to men, does she? And though Sherlock's never said it out loud, this type of attention from John is something he came to crave even before they were lovers. The knowledge that Captain John Watson is driven mad by his desire for _him_ is undeniably exhilarating. Raw. Erotic, even. And the more of Sherlock he gets, the more Sherlock wants to give.

Sherlock prods John's lips with his tongue until they eagerly part; moves his hips in slow waves, their thin T-shirts and underwear serving as the only barrier between their naked skin.

Yes. This is very good. Kissing is good. Talking is boring. Who needs talking, anyhow? Kissing is a far more enjoyable use of their oral cavities.

The two of them have been awake for all of three minutes - and yet, Sherlock is flushed and breathless by the hurried nature of their lovemaking. The speed at which things are accelerating is quite gratifying at the moment, of course; yet unusual. Their morning kissing sessions are mostly unhurried, and often more sensual than sexual. But right now, John glides his fingers over the curves of Sherlock's lower back, his lips pressing against his neck with enough pressure to bruise--and Sherlock is hungry for more. 

Without breaking the kiss, he circles his arms around John's shoulders and pulls his body over his. He covers him like a blanket, sinks into him completely, and still wishes they could somehow be closer. He licks fervidly into John's mouth, continuing to grind their hips together. 

The sounds John makes—and the thickening beneath his waist—become a clear indication of his arousal. Sherlock always enjoys the stiffness in John's pants when they’re being intimate, even during the times he can't follow suit. And John knows this, obviously. So he clutches onto Sherlock's buttocks to control the rhythm of his movements, canting his own hips in a reciprocating motion. 

No, they don't need to talk about the problem. Sherlock's figured it all out, anyway--it didn't take long for him to do so. John's jealousy isn't purely about Sherlock having a past sexual history; it's actually much simpler than that. 

"I love you," John rumbles into Sherlock's ear. This causes a jolt of electricity to surge from Sherlock's abdomen and through his pubic region, coming to rest in the form of his own growing arousal.

These words are by far the most magical tools John possesses. Because whenever Sherlock does become sexually aroused, it's his overwhelming love for John--and John's overwhelming love for him--that sends him there. And John, splendidly observant in the bedroom, knows this as well. So that's what this is all about: John isn't jealous of Sherlock's past sexual experiences. Given his knowledge, he's simply trying to accept what those people may have meant to him. And for him--the idea that Sherlock may have loved them is far worse.

Besides, Sherlock has told him from day one that sex is of absolutely no interest to him. What logical reason would John have to think that it has ever been? These tiny flashes into Sherlock's life before they met must have been jarring, especially when receiving both pieces of news at once. 

"John," Sherlock murmurs against his lips. "Do you know that you're the only person I've ever loved?"

"Yeah?" John says this with the precise combination of surprise and relief Sherlock predicted. The question causes the first beat of hesitation in him since they awoke, but he doesn't stop driving their bodies together; doesn't let go of Sherlock, doesn't stop pressing warm kisses to his neck. "Alright. That's..." he quickly gives up searching for the words. "...yeah. Good to know, I suppose." 

Sherlock stills himself. “It surprises you.” He looks directly at John, but John won't meet his eyes. "It surprises you that I've had sexual experiences with other people, because I have always said that I'm not interested in sex. You know that closeness is what I am interested in; therefore, it also surprises you that I wasn't in love with them." 

"It's fine, Sherlock.” John smiles tightly. "I'm fine. I don't need to know. You aren't entitled to share your past with me."

"But I've got nothing to hide," Sherlock says--mildly alarmed by the candidness that spills out from his words. "Have you?" 

"Not at all." John finally locks eyes with him. "But I worry about what that knowledge may do to me." 

"I presume you're referring to your bitterness at the notion of sharing me with others," Sherlock says reasonably. 

John takes a deep breath and sighs. "Yes. As I said, it's a work in progress. I love and respect you far too much to treat you as though you're a prize for me to claim." 

Sherlock's heart clenches, surging with love for this man who has chosen to love him. He leans into one elbow, bringing the other hand gently to John's cheek. "I actually don't mind it. I think, in this capacity, it's not unhealthy. In fact, I find it absurdly arousing; I've never had anyone want me the way you do. It's intoxicating. And I have never once felt that you regard me as your property. But I am yours, John. You have my love, and that is the most valuable thing I have to offer. Not a soul has had it prior, and I believe nobody else ever will."

John's eyes fill with such deep affection that it nearly takes Sherlock's breath away. And he thinks he might detect a hint of moisture forming, and...

"Oh, no," he panics. "You're not going to cry, John, are you?" He's never seen John cry. "I haven't the first clue of how to deal with a crying human," he rambles on nervously. "...especially a crying human that I love. What does one do in such a situation? Give a pat on the back? Seems quite useless, given the proximity of our penises. Am I supposed to give you a tissue or a towel? Is there not a tradition in which I offer you a shoulder? Which shoulder do you want?"

Amusement mingles with the fondness in John's expression. "Don’t worry. I'm not going to cry."

A weight falls from Sherlock's chest. "Good. All I ask is that if you do cry, you warn me in advance so that I may figure out where my shoulders go."

John bursts into laughter, which Sherlock would love to listen to for the remainder of the morning--but regrettably, he must finish what he needs to say. 

"It's alright if you don't want to hear about my past, John," he continues gingerly. "But there's one very important thing I must say to you: sexual activity is not always contingent upon sexual arousal. And it most definitely is not always contingent upon feelings, even for myself. I know that sexual attraction, for me, is somewhat of a question mark--I always have. And so I did what many others do: I endeavoured to find an answer. What I discovered was a lack of interest. But I am most definitely interested in sex with you--so I suppose in this manner, you've got every bit of me as well." 

John exhales another shaky sigh, turning his head to kiss Sherlock softly on his inner wrist. "You say you've never had anyone want you the way I do. But that isn't true. It boggles my mind that someone so observant fails to notice how utterly captivated others are by you." 

"I notice it," Sherlock states. "I simply didn't care enough to pay attention. Not until it was you, anyway. I most definitely paid attention when it was you." 

"And I most definitely noticed others noticing you," John says. "It drove me mad with anger--so much that at times, it was physically painful. But I was too deep in denial to understand why. I didn't know that I wanted you then; all I knew was that I didn't want them wanting you." 

Sherlock nods slowly as it becomes clearer what John is saying: his unwillingness to discuss Sherlock's past is rooted in fear. Fear of returning to a state of anger and confusion. And it dawns on him as well that back then, many of his own actions were rooted in the same denial. 

He bends forwards to kiss John on the mouth. "The before times were terrible. And I understand why you might be afraid to face those feelings. But I was in the same place you were back then, and I am in the same place you are now. This time, however, we're in the same place at the same time. And anywhere we go, we go together." 

John finally cracks an authentic smile. "For someone with no relationship experience, you're incredibly insightful."

Sherlock shrugs casually. "I've never had any interest in emotional intelligence, either. But I've got a reason to be, now--and I've got a brilliant teacher."

John lifts his hands to the sides of Sherlock's head, gently raking his fingers through his curls. "I love you," he says, looking him square in the eye. He coaxes Sherlock forwards until their foreheads rest together. "I can't begin to tell you how much you've taught me as well, you utterly breathtaking, extraordinary genius." 

Oh, god. The absolute intimacy of this moment grips Sherlock like a vise. He moans, reigniting the arching of his hips. 

"Oh." John's eyes widen. "You're suddenly _very_ hard, Mister Holmes." 

"Yes." Sherlock takes John’s hand into his and slowly guides it downwards. "How very observant, you are, Doctor Watson,” he says as he moves it further to the space between his legs. "...Where it counts, anyway."

John's fingers reach through the flap of Sherlock's underwear and wrap around him almost instinctively. He exhales shakily, a whoosh from deep down in his chest so powerful that it causes his head to lull back.

Nevertheless, Sherlock continues to guide him steadily over his swelling hardness as his other hand wanders to the front of John's boxers—and he wraps his own fingers around the astoundingly stiff and (truly) generously-sized member.

The move surprises John, but in an undeniably pleasing manner; he curses through clenched teeth before he releases another low, rumbling moan. 

Sherlock grazes his thumb over the tip and brushes his lips against John's ear. "Now that I've given you all of me," he breathes, "What comes next, John?"

"I'm--" John sputters as Sherlock rouses him with a deliberately restrained touch. "I'm yours, too. God, I'm yours, Sherlock. Wholly. Completely." 

The words send a shiver through Sherlock, and John's patience wears thin. Before Sherlock is able to work in another touch, another word--the other man has got them both unsheathed completely. He sets his hand atop Sherlock's, guiding it--and his own hand--so that the two men are holding both swollen lengths at once. They slide their trembling fingers up and down with a magnificent synchronicity; the pumping of their hips bringing their cocks together into a slick, grinding motion. 

Sherlock's brain nearly shuts off entirely. But he distantly remembers learning that there are more than four thousand nerve endings where the two of them are currently touching--and at the moment, every last one is lit with a pleasure brighter than a pure white flame. 

Millions of tiny flames, and it doesn't come close to the unbridled love he feels for John, nor the knowledge that John feels the same. 

There is absolutely nothing more frightening than this. 

As the thought enters his mind, Sherlock feels John reach the tipping point. The movements of his body accelerate until their rhythm is lost altogether; he chants Sherlock's name, pumping into their hands with reckless abandon. And as he reaches climax, he tells Sherlock that he loves him--and Sherlock knows he's got no reason to be afraid. 

John's orgasm brings Sherlock to his own nearly immediately. He moves faster and faster and faster until the waves of unadulterated pleasure pulsate erratically into John's hand. The room falls thoroughly silent but for their own gasps and moans and sighs and mutterings of one another's names—until they've wrung one another out completely. 

"You okay, Sherlock?" John asks, just as Sherlock can sense himself returning to reality. 

Sherlock realises he's collapsed onto the bed besides John. He opens his eyes and squints--though for some reason, John appears quite blurry. "Yes," he responds. Why wouldn't I be?"

John grins at him and brings his hand to his cheek. "You're crying, love." 

No he's not. "I'm not crying," he protests. 

Oh, shit. He's crying. 

John chuckles and kisses Sherlock's forehead. "Regardless, may I offer my shoulder? Perhaps you can lay your head there until your eyes are dry." 

Sherlock follows John's directions without hesitation; allowing the moisture in his eyes to dampen John's sleeve. He doesn't care. He's blissed out and in love and completely exhausted. Feelings are exhausting, he thinks. Orgasms are exhausting. And being this happy...that's exhausting as well. But it's a new kind of exhaustion, laden with companionship and endorphins and John kisses, so he decides he will endure it. 

And of course, there's love. The mysterious invisible force which--even more than gravity itself--drives us all in every direction. It's real. Sherlock knows this, now. John Watson has truly made him a believer.


End file.
